Queer as Folk: "Ceremony" (Brian/Justin)
Jul. 2nd, 2008 11:00 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mclachlandTitle: Ceremony
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
mclachlan
Pairing: Brian/Justin
Fandom: Queer as Folk US
Notes/Description/Disclaimer: Season 2 "what if?"……… Takes place after the scene in 2.12 when Brian offers to fuck Michael.
Justin finds out that Brian fucked Michael on a January afternoon, when the sky spews sporadic bouts of snow into the streets where it melts into the asphalt, barely an afterthought.
He can't help but stare at the booth in which they sit, knows he must look heartbroken. Betrayed. Destroyed. Everything he's feeling. His hand trembles under the weight of the coffee pot he holds, bright bursts of pain shooting up his arm like electricity, but he ignores it, can hardly feel it through the maelstrom of questions that tear apart his mind. He's vaguely aware of his eyes burning, lashes blinking away a wellspring of moisture, and his vision blurs.
"This… I can't believe it happened. I… we can't tell Ben. Or Justin. Anyone."
Michael's frantic whisper is deafening, and he grits his teeth to try and block it out. Everyone in the diner must be staring at him, murmuring to themselves and snickering under their breath. Laughing at him, the poor little bashing victim with his gimp hand and his inability to prevent his erstwhile lover from fucking everything and everyone. Even his best friend. The one who had been forever marked as taboo.
A hand falls on his shoulder, and he jumps, startled. Debbie snaps her gum worriedly. "Sunshine, are you okay? You look terrible."
His hand screams in pain, and the diner falls into a hush. He turns his head, eyes wide, and finds both Michael and Brian watching him. Michael is pale, eyes rimmed red and glossy. Brian meets his gaze, inscrutable as always, but he swallows hard, jaw tightening. The only signs of any kind of emotion.
Justin draws in a weak breath, forces the air into his lungs, and dredges up a smile for Debbie. Her mouth opens to demand what's wrong, but he beats her to the punch. "I-I'm fine, Deb. Just… thinking. Sorry."
He walks stiffly over to their booth and wills himself not to start screaming. It bubbles up in his chest, pushing at his throat, begging to be released. If he starts, he will never stop. Instead, he holds up the coffee pot with his weakening hand, the dark liquid inside sloshing around, and smiles for them. A tear escapes and slowly makes its way down his cheek, tickling his skin. The corners of his mouth twitch with an impending sob, but he sends it down to share a prison with the scream.
"Coffee?" His voice cracks, the second syllable riding the tail-end of a whisper, and Michael whimpers.
"Justin… Justin, I'm--"
Justin continues to smile, more tears following the path of the first, this time on both cheeks. "No coffee? Then Debbie will be over to take your order."
He moves to leave the table, but a hand closes around his left wrist, stopping him from taking another step. Brian searches his eyes, and Justin hopes that he sees everything. Hopes that every emotion Brian might find cuts him deeply, spills blood and sends him pin wheeling into agony.
But that's wishful thinking. Because Brian will never show it.
"Excuse me," Justin murmurs, lowering his eyes. He's tired. Tired of this game. He thinks about his upcoming appointment with his doctor about his hand, and contemplates asking the doctor if he can put him back to sleep. "But I need to… need to…"
He can't stay here, not with the two of them.
"Justin," Brian begins, but Justin gently extricates his wrist from Brian's grasp and continues to smile and weep. His right hand whispers a silent apology and releases the coffee pot. The glass shatters on the floor and the coffee splashes over Justin's sneakers and Brian's Prada shoes. Justin looks down at the mess dazedly, at his hand which has become a claw, and Brian swears in surprise, grabbing Justin's hand again… this time to massage the pain away.
"Please," he breathes, heart hammering. Brian lifts his head to look at him. "Please, don't touch me."
His hand is released and Brian takes a step back. Debbie rushes over, eyes wide and confused.
"Sunshine! Are you okay? Oh, honey, what happened?"
Justin cuts a glance at Brian, but Brian won't meet his eyes. "Nothing, Deb. Just… my hand."
Debbie isn't fooled. She never is. "No. It's not that. Sunshine, you're crying! What the fuck did he--"
"I just… figured a few things out, that's all." He backs away from them, from the eyes watching the scene. From Brian's quiet stoicism and Michael's loud guilt. "Can I take my break, Deb?"
She opens her mouth, most likely to console or demand to know -- no lies, now, Sunshine -- what happened, but she shuts it and nods. He turns away, sneakers squeaking on the linoleum from the coffee, and takes off his apron, draping it over the counter as he walks to the door. He doesn't take his jacket.
He doesn't feel the cold right away, just walks down Liberty Avenue in a haze, drawing stares from the few people braving the weather. His skin is pale, translucent, the snow falling around him, clinging and melting on his shirt. The sidewalk is a white blur, the snow starting to stick. He slips a bit on patches of ice, but never falls. Sometimes, he wishes he just would… and stay down. The ground seems so much more solid; he was there once before, but he can't remember anything except the pounding of footsteps and a voice that grew fainter and fainter pleading, "nononono".
He should've seen this coming. Should have been expecting it. He really is a starry-eyed twink. Naïve. It's at that moment, walking past Torso, in which he realizes that love is not enough. It's a single word trying to fight the backdrop of history. Something he doesn't share with Brian. Something he and Michael will always have.
Justin stops to lean against a streetlight, to clutch his stomach. He isn't sick, but he laughs bitterly anyway. His mind clears, shattering with crystal clarity.
You aren't Michael Novotny, and therefore he will never choose you.
He sniffs back another wave of tears and lifts his head, shivering. He can feel the wind now, winces as it bites at him through his shirt, attacks his back. His clothes are wet with melted snow, the iciness seeping into his skin, spreading quickly until it envelopes his heart.
When the black Jeep pulls up to the curb next to him, he gets inside without a word.
-//-//-//-
The loft echoes his footsteps. Justin always admired the acoustics of this place, loved the way it enhances the music he blasts on Brian's stereo, how it wrapped around him like Brian's arms during the most fantastic sex. Now, every step he takes is amplified.
Step. Not good enough.
Step. Doesn't love you.
Step. Not Michael.
He sits on the couch, hands dangling uselessly in his lap. Brian moves around near the door, shutting it tightly and moseying into the kitchen. Justin hears the fridge open and shut, cabinets open and shut, the door to his sanity open and shut. The silence is painful. He bows his head as the weight of it bears down on his shoulders, but he lifts his eyes to look out the window. The snow is coming down harder. He can't see the horizon, and that terrifies him.
Brian sighs heavily behind him. "Justin…"
Did he sigh Michael's name like that?
"Justin, what do you want me to say?"
Say you're sorry! Say it was a terrible mistake! Say that I'm the only one you could ever want! Say that… Say that you love me. Apologize to me. Regret it.
"Nothing," is what makes it past Justin's lips. "No apologies, remember? No regrets."
He can't help the bitterness in his voice.
"I…"
His knees come up and he presses his forehead into them. A small, defeated smile breaks across his face. "Tell me you were at least drunk. Or high."
Silence meets his request, and he releases giddy laughter into his legs, his breath hot against the fabric. High-pitched, with too much energy. "And how was it?"
"… Shut up…"
"Did it open up new doors to you? Was it the best you've ever had? Did he come, screaming your name? Did you scream?" Because he's about to.
A hand cups the back of his neck and forces him to tilt his head back. Brian stares down into his eyes, jaw tight with something that could be akin to shame, gaze burning and desperate. Justin's mouth opens to draw in air, but trembling lips descend upon his own, tongue snaking inside to wipe away this distaste. This insecurity. This loathing.
Brian breaks away, resting his forehead against Justin's, lips a breath away. Justin inhales when Brian does.
"How could you?" He whispers, and Brian climbs onto the couch, straddling him. He holds Justin's face in his hands and nuzzles it, runs his nose over flushed cheeks and closed eyes. "How could you do this?"
"I'm sorry." It's barely audible, barely discernable over the blood in Justin's ears.
"No, you're not." Because Brian Kinney doesn't do sorry.
"I am," is the reply before Justin's mouth is bathed with Brian's tongue again. Justin's arms come to wrap around Brian's waist, a vice of an embrace. He allows himself to fall into it, kisses back with equal fervor, relishes the pain in his lips, rocks against Brian's hardening cock despite his better judgment. That clever mouth leaves his to trail kisses up his cheek and into his hair. Their movements slow, and Justin rests his eyes against Brian's throat, sniffs back tears.
"I hated every second of it." It's murmured against his heated temple, and he sobs quietly, clutching the strong expanse of Brian's back. "But it happened. And I'm sorry."
Justin's eyes burn, and he'd love nothing more than to lay the blame on his allergies, but his sinuses crackle hotly, lips trembling with each hitched breath. He tries to remember a time that seems so very long ago, when he believed that love was the answer. Such an innocent outlook. He thinks that it's no wonder he got hurt the way he did.
His arms loosen around Brian, who lowers his head to Justin's shoulder. They sit in silence, and Justin stares at the January snow outside over chestnut hair that tickles his chin and ignites his senses. Brian's scent is heady and strong.
"I know there are no locks on our doors," Justin finally says, and Brian tenses against him. "And that you're free to fuck whoever you want. I never thought that Michael would…"
"It was a mistake. I… He was so fucking pissed about Ben, so I gave him what he wanted. It's over. It's done."
Tears leak from the corners of his eyes and into Brian's hair.
"I never kissed him. And the sex was terrible."
His eyes slide shut, spilling over. "There's no such thing as bad sex. No such thing as enough. Brian, when is it going to be enough?"
Brian says nothing for a long time, and Justin thinks that the silence will murder him where he sits. Will wrap a noose around his neck and tug until his last gasp of air is torn from him.
When is it going to be enough?
The real question is unsaid. When am I going to be enough?
"I don't know," Brian whispers, and Justin sobs once, a heartbroken sound. "Please… just…"
Justin isn't sure how they make it to the bed, but when he lies back against the sheets and buries his face into the pillow he's long since claimed as his own, Brian slides in behind him and holds him until he feels his ribs creak in protest.
"Justin…"
How much do you love Brian Kinney? How much are you willing to forgive this man? His minor indiscretions were always somewhat understood. The tricks. They were allowed… within certain boundaries. But to fuck Michael…
"Justin, I don't know what… to do."
How much?
With a shaky breath, he takes Brian's arms and tucks them tighter around his waist. His breathing is constricted, but he feels…
Like that tainted embrace is the only thing holding him together, preventing him from flying into a million pieces.
How could he do it, after all the shit they'd gone through? If the insecurities left over from the bashing and from Brian's confession to initially taking him in because of guilt aren't bad enough, he has to deal with the knowledge that Michael Novotny, a supposed mutual friend who would remain untouched by the sexual hand of Brian Kinney, got the fuck he always dreamed of. He wonders if Michael laid with Brian and basked in the afterglow, nestled into a sweaty hold, head on Brian's chest. Did Michael's hair get stroked? Did they talk and laugh and joke about everything and nothing at all?
Did they do the things reserved for Justin and only Justin?
"I'm gonna be sick," Justin chokes out, struggling to free himself from Brian, who grunts in surprise.
"Justin--"
"I'm gonna be fucking sick! You fucking bastard!" He crawls over to the edge of the bed and spills onto the floor hard. Brian sits up and moves to follow him, shock on his face, but Justin scuttles back. "No! No, you don't get to do this!"
"What the fuck?! You were fine two seconds ago!"
Justin cackles, a raucous sound that makes Brian flinch. "Fine? Fine?! How the hell could I be fine? You fucked Michael! You fucked Michael. And you just… you just expect to be forgiven! I know that it's a foreign concept to you, but there is a line. And you fucking crossed it when you shoved your cock up Michael's ass."
Brian drops his head against his knee, draping an arm over his hair. "Justin, Christ. There's nothing I can fucking do about it now."
Swallowing, trembling with rage and betrayal, Justin gets to his feet and regards the man in the bed, eyes leaking fury. "I know we're not married. I know there aren't locks on our door. I know you don't owe me a thing, but you can sure as fuck tell me: was it worth it?"
Silence meets his question, and Justin lunges forward, knees hitting the mattress hard and arms reaching out. He clutches Brian's face in his hands and forces him to look at him.
"Was. It. Worth. It?"
"OF COURSE IT FUCKING WASN'T!!" Brian roars, slapping Justin's hands away hard, seething. "You don't think I know how… how you… Fuck, Justin. I might not care about a lot of shit, but even I understand how you're feeling."
A slow smile breaks across Justin's face and the tears fall harder. Brian doesn't like that smile.
"No, you don't understand."
Brian lifts his fingers to brush the tears away. "And why don't I?"
"Because you don't love me."
Justin's eerie smile widens as Brian's eyes do.
"Remember?"
Brian looks away, and Justin nods, swiping an arm across his eyes.
"You don't do love. You don't love me. You don't love anyone like that, so you don't understand this." He snorts. "And I thought… Christ, I really must be the twink everyone thinks I am. Maybe I should be happy that you finally got to have sex with someone you do love and--"
Brian starts forward and pushes him back onto the bed, crawls over him and envelopes him. Brian kisses him like a man possessed, breath hitched, keening softly into Justin's mouth, and takes both of Justin's hands and holds them out at their sides, fingers laced and clutching tightly.
"Shut up," Brian hisses against his lips. "Shut up. Shut up. Shut up! You don't know fucking shit about what I feel!"
"I don't?" Justin snarls up at him, wishing that the tears would just stop for once. "So, tell me, then. What do you feel?"
Brian turns his head and Justin's lips brush his chin with the movement.
"Do you love me?"
"Why do you need the words?" Brian's voice is hoarse in Justin's ear, and he drops his cheek to the shoulder below him, resting once again. Justin's arms come around his back, loose and comfortable.
"Because sometimes words are all we have," Justin whispers, and closes his eyes at the puff of breath against his skin. "Tell me. Do you love me?"
The silence that meets his question almost confirms his worst fear… until Brian speaks again.
"You… can't tell?"
It's everything he wasn't expecting, and so he holds Brian tighter and opens his eyes to stare through the open doorway of the bedroom, into the loft, and out the window. The snow is lightening up.
"Tomorrow," Justin breathes softly, and Brian's arms slip under his back, against the bed, and brings him closer. "We're going to sit down and talk to Michael and Ben. Get everything out in the open. Settle this."
"The fuck we are."
"We are." A beat. "And if you ever do something like this again…"
"No."
Justin runs a hand up Brian's back and into his hair, where it rests, and he continues to watch the snow fall.
Imagine how different the series would've been if it'd gone like this.
Author:
mclachlanPairing: Brian/Justin
Fandom: Queer as Folk US
Notes/Description/Disclaimer: Season 2 "what if?"……… Takes place after the scene in 2.12 when Brian offers to fuck Michael.
Justin finds out that Brian fucked Michael on a January afternoon, when the sky spews sporadic bouts of snow into the streets where it melts into the asphalt, barely an afterthought.
He can't help but stare at the booth in which they sit, knows he must look heartbroken. Betrayed. Destroyed. Everything he's feeling. His hand trembles under the weight of the coffee pot he holds, bright bursts of pain shooting up his arm like electricity, but he ignores it, can hardly feel it through the maelstrom of questions that tear apart his mind. He's vaguely aware of his eyes burning, lashes blinking away a wellspring of moisture, and his vision blurs.
"This… I can't believe it happened. I… we can't tell Ben. Or Justin. Anyone."
Michael's frantic whisper is deafening, and he grits his teeth to try and block it out. Everyone in the diner must be staring at him, murmuring to themselves and snickering under their breath. Laughing at him, the poor little bashing victim with his gimp hand and his inability to prevent his erstwhile lover from fucking everything and everyone. Even his best friend. The one who had been forever marked as taboo.
A hand falls on his shoulder, and he jumps, startled. Debbie snaps her gum worriedly. "Sunshine, are you okay? You look terrible."
His hand screams in pain, and the diner falls into a hush. He turns his head, eyes wide, and finds both Michael and Brian watching him. Michael is pale, eyes rimmed red and glossy. Brian meets his gaze, inscrutable as always, but he swallows hard, jaw tightening. The only signs of any kind of emotion.
Justin draws in a weak breath, forces the air into his lungs, and dredges up a smile for Debbie. Her mouth opens to demand what's wrong, but he beats her to the punch. "I-I'm fine, Deb. Just… thinking. Sorry."
He walks stiffly over to their booth and wills himself not to start screaming. It bubbles up in his chest, pushing at his throat, begging to be released. If he starts, he will never stop. Instead, he holds up the coffee pot with his weakening hand, the dark liquid inside sloshing around, and smiles for them. A tear escapes and slowly makes its way down his cheek, tickling his skin. The corners of his mouth twitch with an impending sob, but he sends it down to share a prison with the scream.
"Coffee?" His voice cracks, the second syllable riding the tail-end of a whisper, and Michael whimpers.
"Justin… Justin, I'm--"
Justin continues to smile, more tears following the path of the first, this time on both cheeks. "No coffee? Then Debbie will be over to take your order."
He moves to leave the table, but a hand closes around his left wrist, stopping him from taking another step. Brian searches his eyes, and Justin hopes that he sees everything. Hopes that every emotion Brian might find cuts him deeply, spills blood and sends him pin wheeling into agony.
But that's wishful thinking. Because Brian will never show it.
"Excuse me," Justin murmurs, lowering his eyes. He's tired. Tired of this game. He thinks about his upcoming appointment with his doctor about his hand, and contemplates asking the doctor if he can put him back to sleep. "But I need to… need to…"
He can't stay here, not with the two of them.
"Justin," Brian begins, but Justin gently extricates his wrist from Brian's grasp and continues to smile and weep. His right hand whispers a silent apology and releases the coffee pot. The glass shatters on the floor and the coffee splashes over Justin's sneakers and Brian's Prada shoes. Justin looks down at the mess dazedly, at his hand which has become a claw, and Brian swears in surprise, grabbing Justin's hand again… this time to massage the pain away.
"Please," he breathes, heart hammering. Brian lifts his head to look at him. "Please, don't touch me."
His hand is released and Brian takes a step back. Debbie rushes over, eyes wide and confused.
"Sunshine! Are you okay? Oh, honey, what happened?"
Justin cuts a glance at Brian, but Brian won't meet his eyes. "Nothing, Deb. Just… my hand."
Debbie isn't fooled. She never is. "No. It's not that. Sunshine, you're crying! What the fuck did he--"
"I just… figured a few things out, that's all." He backs away from them, from the eyes watching the scene. From Brian's quiet stoicism and Michael's loud guilt. "Can I take my break, Deb?"
She opens her mouth, most likely to console or demand to know -- no lies, now, Sunshine -- what happened, but she shuts it and nods. He turns away, sneakers squeaking on the linoleum from the coffee, and takes off his apron, draping it over the counter as he walks to the door. He doesn't take his jacket.
He doesn't feel the cold right away, just walks down Liberty Avenue in a haze, drawing stares from the few people braving the weather. His skin is pale, translucent, the snow falling around him, clinging and melting on his shirt. The sidewalk is a white blur, the snow starting to stick. He slips a bit on patches of ice, but never falls. Sometimes, he wishes he just would… and stay down. The ground seems so much more solid; he was there once before, but he can't remember anything except the pounding of footsteps and a voice that grew fainter and fainter pleading, "nononono".
He should've seen this coming. Should have been expecting it. He really is a starry-eyed twink. Naïve. It's at that moment, walking past Torso, in which he realizes that love is not enough. It's a single word trying to fight the backdrop of history. Something he doesn't share with Brian. Something he and Michael will always have.
Justin stops to lean against a streetlight, to clutch his stomach. He isn't sick, but he laughs bitterly anyway. His mind clears, shattering with crystal clarity.
You aren't Michael Novotny, and therefore he will never choose you.
He sniffs back another wave of tears and lifts his head, shivering. He can feel the wind now, winces as it bites at him through his shirt, attacks his back. His clothes are wet with melted snow, the iciness seeping into his skin, spreading quickly until it envelopes his heart.
When the black Jeep pulls up to the curb next to him, he gets inside without a word.
The loft echoes his footsteps. Justin always admired the acoustics of this place, loved the way it enhances the music he blasts on Brian's stereo, how it wrapped around him like Brian's arms during the most fantastic sex. Now, every step he takes is amplified.
Step. Not good enough.
Step. Doesn't love you.
Step. Not Michael.
He sits on the couch, hands dangling uselessly in his lap. Brian moves around near the door, shutting it tightly and moseying into the kitchen. Justin hears the fridge open and shut, cabinets open and shut, the door to his sanity open and shut. The silence is painful. He bows his head as the weight of it bears down on his shoulders, but he lifts his eyes to look out the window. The snow is coming down harder. He can't see the horizon, and that terrifies him.
Brian sighs heavily behind him. "Justin…"
Did he sigh Michael's name like that?
"Justin, what do you want me to say?"
Say you're sorry! Say it was a terrible mistake! Say that I'm the only one you could ever want! Say that… Say that you love me. Apologize to me. Regret it.
"Nothing," is what makes it past Justin's lips. "No apologies, remember? No regrets."
He can't help the bitterness in his voice.
"I…"
His knees come up and he presses his forehead into them. A small, defeated smile breaks across his face. "Tell me you were at least drunk. Or high."
Silence meets his request, and he releases giddy laughter into his legs, his breath hot against the fabric. High-pitched, with too much energy. "And how was it?"
"… Shut up…"
"Did it open up new doors to you? Was it the best you've ever had? Did he come, screaming your name? Did you scream?" Because he's about to.
A hand cups the back of his neck and forces him to tilt his head back. Brian stares down into his eyes, jaw tight with something that could be akin to shame, gaze burning and desperate. Justin's mouth opens to draw in air, but trembling lips descend upon his own, tongue snaking inside to wipe away this distaste. This insecurity. This loathing.
Brian breaks away, resting his forehead against Justin's, lips a breath away. Justin inhales when Brian does.
"How could you?" He whispers, and Brian climbs onto the couch, straddling him. He holds Justin's face in his hands and nuzzles it, runs his nose over flushed cheeks and closed eyes. "How could you do this?"
"I'm sorry." It's barely audible, barely discernable over the blood in Justin's ears.
"No, you're not." Because Brian Kinney doesn't do sorry.
"I am," is the reply before Justin's mouth is bathed with Brian's tongue again. Justin's arms come to wrap around Brian's waist, a vice of an embrace. He allows himself to fall into it, kisses back with equal fervor, relishes the pain in his lips, rocks against Brian's hardening cock despite his better judgment. That clever mouth leaves his to trail kisses up his cheek and into his hair. Their movements slow, and Justin rests his eyes against Brian's throat, sniffs back tears.
"I hated every second of it." It's murmured against his heated temple, and he sobs quietly, clutching the strong expanse of Brian's back. "But it happened. And I'm sorry."
Justin's eyes burn, and he'd love nothing more than to lay the blame on his allergies, but his sinuses crackle hotly, lips trembling with each hitched breath. He tries to remember a time that seems so very long ago, when he believed that love was the answer. Such an innocent outlook. He thinks that it's no wonder he got hurt the way he did.
His arms loosen around Brian, who lowers his head to Justin's shoulder. They sit in silence, and Justin stares at the January snow outside over chestnut hair that tickles his chin and ignites his senses. Brian's scent is heady and strong.
"I know there are no locks on our doors," Justin finally says, and Brian tenses against him. "And that you're free to fuck whoever you want. I never thought that Michael would…"
"It was a mistake. I… He was so fucking pissed about Ben, so I gave him what he wanted. It's over. It's done."
Tears leak from the corners of his eyes and into Brian's hair.
"I never kissed him. And the sex was terrible."
His eyes slide shut, spilling over. "There's no such thing as bad sex. No such thing as enough. Brian, when is it going to be enough?"
Brian says nothing for a long time, and Justin thinks that the silence will murder him where he sits. Will wrap a noose around his neck and tug until his last gasp of air is torn from him.
When is it going to be enough?
The real question is unsaid. When am I going to be enough?
"I don't know," Brian whispers, and Justin sobs once, a heartbroken sound. "Please… just…"
Justin isn't sure how they make it to the bed, but when he lies back against the sheets and buries his face into the pillow he's long since claimed as his own, Brian slides in behind him and holds him until he feels his ribs creak in protest.
"Justin…"
How much do you love Brian Kinney? How much are you willing to forgive this man? His minor indiscretions were always somewhat understood. The tricks. They were allowed… within certain boundaries. But to fuck Michael…
"Justin, I don't know what… to do."
How much?
With a shaky breath, he takes Brian's arms and tucks them tighter around his waist. His breathing is constricted, but he feels…
Like that tainted embrace is the only thing holding him together, preventing him from flying into a million pieces.
How could he do it, after all the shit they'd gone through? If the insecurities left over from the bashing and from Brian's confession to initially taking him in because of guilt aren't bad enough, he has to deal with the knowledge that Michael Novotny, a supposed mutual friend who would remain untouched by the sexual hand of Brian Kinney, got the fuck he always dreamed of. He wonders if Michael laid with Brian and basked in the afterglow, nestled into a sweaty hold, head on Brian's chest. Did Michael's hair get stroked? Did they talk and laugh and joke about everything and nothing at all?
Did they do the things reserved for Justin and only Justin?
"I'm gonna be sick," Justin chokes out, struggling to free himself from Brian, who grunts in surprise.
"Justin--"
"I'm gonna be fucking sick! You fucking bastard!" He crawls over to the edge of the bed and spills onto the floor hard. Brian sits up and moves to follow him, shock on his face, but Justin scuttles back. "No! No, you don't get to do this!"
"What the fuck?! You were fine two seconds ago!"
Justin cackles, a raucous sound that makes Brian flinch. "Fine? Fine?! How the hell could I be fine? You fucked Michael! You fucked Michael. And you just… you just expect to be forgiven! I know that it's a foreign concept to you, but there is a line. And you fucking crossed it when you shoved your cock up Michael's ass."
Brian drops his head against his knee, draping an arm over his hair. "Justin, Christ. There's nothing I can fucking do about it now."
Swallowing, trembling with rage and betrayal, Justin gets to his feet and regards the man in the bed, eyes leaking fury. "I know we're not married. I know there aren't locks on our door. I know you don't owe me a thing, but you can sure as fuck tell me: was it worth it?"
Silence meets his question, and Justin lunges forward, knees hitting the mattress hard and arms reaching out. He clutches Brian's face in his hands and forces him to look at him.
"Was. It. Worth. It?"
"OF COURSE IT FUCKING WASN'T!!" Brian roars, slapping Justin's hands away hard, seething. "You don't think I know how… how you… Fuck, Justin. I might not care about a lot of shit, but even I understand how you're feeling."
A slow smile breaks across Justin's face and the tears fall harder. Brian doesn't like that smile.
"No, you don't understand."
Brian lifts his fingers to brush the tears away. "And why don't I?"
"Because you don't love me."
Justin's eerie smile widens as Brian's eyes do.
"Remember?"
Brian looks away, and Justin nods, swiping an arm across his eyes.
"You don't do love. You don't love me. You don't love anyone like that, so you don't understand this." He snorts. "And I thought… Christ, I really must be the twink everyone thinks I am. Maybe I should be happy that you finally got to have sex with someone you do love and--"
Brian starts forward and pushes him back onto the bed, crawls over him and envelopes him. Brian kisses him like a man possessed, breath hitched, keening softly into Justin's mouth, and takes both of Justin's hands and holds them out at their sides, fingers laced and clutching tightly.
"Shut up," Brian hisses against his lips. "Shut up. Shut up. Shut up! You don't know fucking shit about what I feel!"
"I don't?" Justin snarls up at him, wishing that the tears would just stop for once. "So, tell me, then. What do you feel?"
Brian turns his head and Justin's lips brush his chin with the movement.
"Do you love me?"
"Why do you need the words?" Brian's voice is hoarse in Justin's ear, and he drops his cheek to the shoulder below him, resting once again. Justin's arms come around his back, loose and comfortable.
"Because sometimes words are all we have," Justin whispers, and closes his eyes at the puff of breath against his skin. "Tell me. Do you love me?"
The silence that meets his question almost confirms his worst fear… until Brian speaks again.
"You… can't tell?"
It's everything he wasn't expecting, and so he holds Brian tighter and opens his eyes to stare through the open doorway of the bedroom, into the loft, and out the window. The snow is lightening up.
"Tomorrow," Justin breathes softly, and Brian's arms slip under his back, against the bed, and brings him closer. "We're going to sit down and talk to Michael and Ben. Get everything out in the open. Settle this."
"The fuck we are."
"We are." A beat. "And if you ever do something like this again…"
"No."
Justin runs a hand up Brian's back and into his hair, where it rests, and he continues to watch the snow fall.
Imagine how different the series would've been if it'd gone like this.
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Date: 2012-11-03 11:02 pm (UTC)